Mrs. Teabody Wanders in Wales

Someone mentions a picturesque town, an amazing structure, a scene in nature of  breathtaking beauty and my mind locks it in a box and I vow that someday, some way I WILL get there.

Good Morning from rainy Meadow Grounds where Mrs. Teabody is finding it important to speak with some clarity regarding toast toppings. Jam is a food made by boiling fruit and sugar to a thick consistency. Jelly is a soft somewhat elastic fruit product made by boiling sugar and the juice of fruit. Marmalade is a clear sweetened jelly in which pieces of (usually) citrus fruit and fruit rind are suspended. Are we clear? Good.

What's on your toast these February mornings? If ever there was a time of year to open up all those delicious jams, jellies and marmalades you either concocted yourself or received from generous friends at Christmas, that time is Now. Mrs. Teabody does not usually have anything sweet before noon, but when Cindy Glessner gifted me a jar of raspberry jelly the other day, I knew it was time to make an exception. I grabbed a jar of JAM instead thinking, "I'll save Cindy's jelly for an important guest who complains of seeds". ( You know who you are). Mrs. Teabody quite likes seeds.  Add a morning cuppa and prepare to be transported.  Use REAL butter first, of course. And don't be shy with the jam, jelly and/or marmalade. Breakfast is not some forced march.

Oh. This is neither Keto, RAW nor anything diet-friendly. Munch, munch.

Let's Travel, shall we?

A clever Christmas window in a bookshop in Hay-on-Wye

Hay-on-Wye, population 1598, sometimes just called "Hay", is a town that was first brought to my attention by our brilliant, hilarious, witty and much-missed friend, Jean Snyder. In the 1980s, Jean and I made many, many trips to far-flung towns just to visit bookstores. Imagine that. Some of our best and most memorable conversations were about books. We read the Sunday book reviews with excitement and looked forward to our next book-buying ramble. We LOVED books.

One day with eyes a-sparkle, Jean told me about a place she'd read about in the NYT, Hay-on-Wye, a small town in Wales "no bigger than McConnellsburg"  "FILLED with bookstores".  The little village of Hay was transformed each spring  by a book festival when thousands of people gathered for the express purpose of buying and selling books. "WE must go" we both agreed but, sadly, international travel was not in our purview at that time. Our world changed greatly, but over the years I have thought often about Jean and our thwarted trip to a book lover's Paradise. On the Teabodys' most recent visit to the UK, we spent a day in Wales with a driver who was quite willing to drive an extra hour along torturously narrow roads to find this almost mythical village. Hay-on-Wye was bustling with visitors on December 29 and with no parking in sight he dropped us by the village clock tower telling us he'd meet us there at a designated time. We climbed a steep hill where three streets converged precariously arriving at "The Poetry Bookshop". POETRY Bookshop? Surely I have died . . .

Our company of three could hardly contain ourselves as we gazed upon row upon row of books on shelves and filled with nothing but poetry. Honestly, I nearly cried. Oh, and before your cynical self gets too far along the path, yes, there were other customers galore and, yes, they were BUYING. Books Of Poetry. I approached the owner asking timidly if he had any Wendy Cope. A broad smile took over his face. "But of course, madam," and he led me to the shelf containing ALL her books--four of which I did not own . . .until that day. 

"She was just here, you know," he said pulling thin volumes from the shelf. "She's lovely. Very funny," he added.

"Wendy Cope was just here?" I asked incredulously. "DO you mean she's actually REAL?" At that we both laughed and  a few minutes later we all strolled into the afternoon air clutching our parcels. Ten steps further, another book shop. Up the street left, yet another. Across the way? Two.

To try to imagine our excitement, you, Dear Reader, must imagine something you feel passionately about be it: kitchen gear, woodworking equipment, beer-making materials, and then try to fathom a town the size of McConnellsburg hosting no fewer than 35 - - -yes, I said THIRTY FIVE shops dedicated exclusively to your passion. That town if you love books is Hay-on-Wye. Among our favorites was certainly this gem devoted to . . .well, you're this far along so it's self explanatory:

Hay is an amazing town. A trio of young teen boys played lively music in the street and the town bustled in good time. Mr. Teabody beckoned us across the way. We crossed the street dodging cars, stepped up a few steps into the castle  courtyard. "Turn around, " he said, and we looked to the right.

                                                   

And then to our left. Surely we had found some sort of  portal. An absolutely free, open-air book exchange. Inside a castle courtyard. With not one single sign of vandalism. . .

That day in Hay-on-Wye did something STRUCTURAL for me.  Some failing part of me was mended, almost like a steel rod bonded to my backbone only this was some emotional part that had almost given up on ever being right again. That's not to say, I am whole in that failing part. But I am mended, and that is almost as good, isn't it?

New Season

No coats today. Buds bulge on chestnut trees,

And on the doorstep of a big, old house

A young man stands and plays his flute.

I watch the silver notes fly up

And circle in the blue sky above the traffic,

Travelling where they will.

And suddenly this paving-stone

Midway between my front door and the bus stop

Is a starting point.

From here I can go anywhere I choose.

― Wendy Cope